


forever

by starkravingcap



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Cult, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Pregnancy, Soft John Seed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 15:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkravingcap/pseuds/starkravingcap
Summary: She makes dinner. That’s how John knows something’s up. It’s neither of their birthdays, their anniversary isn’t for another six months, and John is almost positive he hasn’t missed any major holidays.He has to admit — he’s intrigued.





	forever

She makes dinner. That’s how John knows something’s up. Not that he doesn’t mind the gesture, of course, but Rook is no chef, and he’s more or less taken over in the kitchen for the year or so they’ve been together. 

John knows almost every part of her like the back of his hand, but even he can’t quite tell what’s on her mind tonight.

The possibilities buzz around inside his head. Rook is a hopeless romantic, he’s discovered, so he wouldn’t be surprised if this were some kind of strange, safe-for-work foreplay. It’s neither of their birthdays, their anniversary isn’t for another six months, and John is almost positive he hasn’t missed any major holidays. He has to admit — he’s intrigued.

“Fettuccini.”

The sound of the plate hitting the table in front of him breaks his train of thought. He’s amazed to find that it actually looks edible. Good, even.

He eyes the curve of Rook’s hip as she walks by him and pulls her chair out from the opposite end of the table. She sits, settles her plate in front of her, and meets his curious stare with a look of her own.

“Where’s the real Rook?” John asks. “The one that doesn’t know how to cook?”

“Aliens,” Rook suggests in her most serious voice. “The pasta is from a box. The sauce is from a jar. Hold your applause.”

John smiles at her lopsidedly. His life hasn’t always been happy, but this woman makes getting out of bed in the mornings worth it.

"What's the occasion, darling?"

Her expression shifts a little, something subtle that he wouldn't have caught if he weren’t paying such close attention. Rook scratches the side of her nose nervously and smiles at him.

"After. Eat."

So they do. They eat together, spend time talking about their days. Rook and her colleagues are preparing for a massive drug bust — meth, cocaine, the works — and the anticipation of the arrest is making her antsy. John’s going blind on corporate closings himself, so he’s appreciative of the reprieve her story provides. He’s always loved being lawyer, but he’s never been particularly fond of all the paperwork.

The conversation flows easily, but Rook’s speech feels stilted. To John, it sounds like she’s trying desperately to measure each word before it leaves her mouth, and each sentence leaves him feeling more curious and more concerned.

They finish their dinner mostly in silence, and when Rook’s picked up the plates and taken them to the sink, she comes back and sits next to him at the table. In her hands she carries a box wrapped in blue paper.

"What's this?"

Rook sets it in front of him and wrings her hands together. It’s a nervous habit of hers, and John can tell that she doesn’t know she’s doing it.

"Open it."

John raises an eyebrow and eyes the box warily. He’s starting to get the impression that he’s missing a very important piece of whatever mysterious puzzle Rook’s working on.

“I have to ask,” he says quietly, watching her face. “I haven’t missed an important day, have I?”

A laugh startles its way out of her, and for a second Rook seems surprised at her own reaction. A tiny smile settles on her face.

“No, just—just open it.”

John gives her a final look before he slides a finger under the fold of the paper at one corner and tears it away from the box. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks Rook might be trembling, though he’s not entirely sure. He was concerned, at first, but now quiet anxiety is starting to swirl in his gut.

He opens the box. Inside is a white piece of cloth, folded enough that he can’t quite tell exactly what it is on first glance. John pulls it out and lets it unfold.

It's a baby onesie.

"What's this?" he asks.

There’s a black silhouette of the scales of justice on the front of the onesie, and the words ‘_daddy’s co-counsel_’ centered underneath it. When he looks back to Rook, she nods towards the open box. John sets the outfit down on the table top and looks back inside.

He doesn't realize at first what he's looking at. When he finally recognizes the white plastic strip and the blue plus sign of the pregnancy test for what it is, the air disappears from his lungs. His head drifts back to Rook, and he’s _sure_ all the colour has drained from his face. It feels like someone’s punched him square in the chest.

"Is this...?" he starts hesitantly, watching her face very closely. She looks like she's close to tears. "Rook? Please tell me you're not messing with me."

Rook shakes her head very gently, and John feels more things in this one moment than he thinks he ever has in his entire life. Surprise, first, followed by an all-encompassing _happiness_ that he doesn't have any precedent for. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and he doesn't know what to say or do other than to bring his hand up to cover his lips.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually, voice hoarse. His heart is thudding in his ribcage. "I have to make sure we're on the same page here because I do not want to get the wrong idea."

A laugh surprises its way out of Rook’s mouth. It’s a watery, warbled sound.

"Are you pregnant?"

She nods very slowly, her face twisted in emotion. Fear? Panic? He can't tell, but he doesn’t like it. It looks foreign on her face, and John never wants to see it there again.

“Yes."

A grin splits his face so widely that his cheeks hurt, and he watches the hesitancy melt from Rook’s expression. John gets out of the chair and kneels down in front of her. He finds her hands and tangles their fingers together to stop her trembling.

"Normally people are excited about this kind of thing, darling,” John reminds her, voice whisper quiet in the empty dining room. He offers her a small smile. “What's wrong?"

"I didn't know how you would react," she admits, avoiding his eyes. "I didn’t—we’ve never talked about kids before."

John reaches up to cup her face in his palms. Rook’s skin is soft and warm under his touch, and he tilts her head a little so she can’t look away from him. He can see the uncertainty in her gaze, the trepidation and fear that this would somehow be a dealbreaker for him, and end to her happiness. She blinks owlishly, and John runs his thumb over the line of her cheekbone.

He is hit very suddenly by the gravity of it all. John leans in to kiss her, slow and deep, and when he finally breaks to speak he murmurs his words against her mouth.

"I'm gonna be a dad," he says, like it's the most amazing thing in the world — and it _is_. It's incredible. “How could you possibly think I wouldn't be happy?"

Rook shakes her head, a not-so-subtle gesture that says _I don’t want to talk about it. _Normally, he would press further — maybe it’s not healthy, but he wants to know exactly what part of himself has planted this seed of doubt in her mind so he can cut it out and destroy it. Instead, John finds he’s too happy to do anything other then let her off the hook. Their lips meet again in a soft, gentle kiss.

"I love you," he whispers. His hand comes up to her belly, still very flat beneath her shirt. “God, I—“

There are so many things he wants to say, but he can’t figure out how to articulate them. Instead, he exhales slowly, tipping his forehead down to rest against her stomach.

Rook reaches for him and runs her fingers through his hair.

“The onesie was clever,” John says after a while, pulling away so he can look up at her properly.

All at once, it’s as though Rook is a totally different person. Her face lights up in a grin, tears and trembling hands long forgotten.

“I _know_,” she says enthusiastically. “Do you know how long I’ve been picturing you walking into a courtroom with a baby strapped to you?”

“How long have you _known_?” John asks incredulously.

The grin falters, and for a minute he swears she looks sheepish.

“Two weeks,” Rook admits. “First I panicked, and then I didn’t know how to tell you. Then I thought about how if my mother were alive she would kick my ass for waiting so long to say something, and, well — here we are. Sorry.”

“Don’t be, darling,” he soothes. He leans forward and kisses the tip of her nose.

Rook jolts suddenly, clambering up out of the chair and leaving John crouched in front of the empty seat. He stares at her curiously.

“Oh!” she says, eyes wide and excited. “I have an ultrasound picture from when the doctor checked to make sure. Hang on.”

John stands, legs numb and wobbly, and watches Rook retreat toward their bedroom. How long has she been keeping a photograph of their baby in there? How oblivious has he been?

She comes back with an eight by ten in her hand, and holds it out to him. The picture is grainy, black and white, but he can see the outline, the peaks and valleys where the nose and mouth are formed. They're so small, whoever they are — boy or girl. He can't believe that this is a human being.

"Shit," John says, because he can't think of anything more productive to say. "That's our baby.”

"Sure is.”

He can’t stop staring.

“How far along?"

"Two months," she says, and he looks up, floored. He only has to wait seven more months to meet his little one, though he supposes the wait will be unbearable now that he knows.

John reaches out and tugs her against him so he can squeeze her tight. Behind her back, where his arms wrap around her, he finds himself still staring at the sonogram in his hand. His heart swells. He doesn't think he has ever felt like this before.

A sudden thought makes him pull back just enough to fix her with a look, his eyebrows knit together in concern.

“Do your coworkers know? Whitehorse?” he asks, but doesn’t give her the time to answer. “There’s no way you’re tagging along on that drug bust.”

“John—“

“Not a chance in hell,” John carries on, drowning out her voice with his own. A new kind of anxiety that he isn’t used to is starting to trickle into the pit of his stomach. “Too many weapons, no—“

“_John_,” Rook says forcefully. “Shut up and kiss me.”

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> the baby onesie is real, and though i’m neither married to a lawyer nor pregnant, my legal assistant ass wants it. 
> 
> follow me on [ tumblr](https://softseeds.tumblr.com/) for more nonsense, and maybe even request a thing!


End file.
